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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459578">Catharsis</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/pittedpeachpomegranate/pseuds/pittedpeachpomegranate'>pittedpeachpomegranate</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>'Tis a Fearful Thing [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Old Guard (Movie 2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arguing, Autoerotic Asphyxiation, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Choking, Dealing With Mortality, Hand Jobs, Heartbreak, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Immortality, M/M, POV Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, POV Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Serious Injuries, Temporary Character Death, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, dealing with Booker's betrayal, mentions of Quynh - Freeform</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 07:49:05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,948</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26459578</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/pittedpeachpomegranate/pseuds/pittedpeachpomegranate</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"He has been tending the seed of love in Yusuf’s heart for centuries, and the roots are thick knots, tangled in every branch of his bronchial tree. When it breaks, he can feel the splintering stems like a broken bone."</p><p>3 times Nicky and Joe face the world together</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>'Tis a Fearful Thing [5]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1897807</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>381</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Catharsis</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <strong>1.</strong>
</p><p>Yusuf and Nicolo have only been together a handful of decades when Edessa falls to the Muslims, and Pope Eugene III releases the <em>Quantum Praedecessores</em>, calling for another crusade.</p><p>Bernard of Clairvaux is travelling through Europe, rallying people to take up the pilgrimage, offering eternal glory in return. They are in Genoa of all places, when they hear. But the Byzantines and the Turks have a steady agreement, and this crusade seems nothing more than territory dispute.</p><p>He says as much to Nicolo, as they are packing their belongings.</p><p>“You think the King of France cares for a truce? He would have everyone converted or killed, if only given the opportunity,” Nicolo insists.</p><p>Yusuf absently flips through his sketches; Nicolo – he will miss Genoa, and Yusuf will too. The crusades were a lifetime ago, and when he was defending his home, it felt justified. When they lost, a piece of his heart was lost too. He is unsure he can take another war.</p><p>He sighs, and says finally, “what are we to do, Nicolo? I no longer know what we are fighting for.”</p><p>Nicolo doesn’t push the issue, and they don’t talk of it again, which Yusuf is grateful for. Still, they keep their ear to the ground, and move on.</p><p>--</p><p>A flood destroys a significant number of the German contingent near Constantinople. The Seljuk Turks force them to retreat to Nicaea, after they slog their way to Dorylaion.</p><p>King Louis VII’s army fails at the Cadmus Mountains.</p><p>That’s when he turns toward Damascus.</p><p>--</p><p>Yusuf has nightmares of the Umayyad Mosque filled with blood, of babes torn from their mother’s arms – <em>removing the contamination of pagan superstition</em> – and slaughtered. He sees burning pyres of bodies outside Damascus’s walls, can smell the cloying stench of death hanging in the air. He cannot tell if he is holding the sword or blistering on the pile, is he screaming, or is he-</p><p>“Yusuf, <em>destati</em>.”</p><p>Yusuf jerks awake in Nicolo’s arms, sweaty and shivering. He instinctively burrows closer into the sturdy warmth of Nicolo’s body, tries to calm his shaking breath. Nicolo presses kisses to his forehead and runs his hand up the length of Yusuf’s back in a soothing gesture. His other hand is wrapped around Yusuf’s head, holding Yusuf to his chest.</p><p>Yusuf takes a steadying breath and exhales, “I’m okay, habibi.”</p><p>He can feel Nicolo’s swallow, like there’s something he wants to say, but won’t allow himself to. Yusuf’s heart hurts with affection.</p><p>Then: “what do you need, amati?”</p><p>Yusuf presses his answer to the skin of Nicolo’s chest, and listens to Nicolo’s intake of breath. Then hands are in his hair, tugging upward, then he’s being kissed hungrily, lips parted as Nicolo’s tongue licks inside his mouth.</p><p>Frantic desire swells in his abdomen, his heart rate picking up for an entirely different reason now. Nicolo steals breath after breath, kissing him without reprieve. His cock is half hard already when Nicolo slides a hand down and wraps it around the base.</p><p>“This is us, here, Yusuf. This is holy. What happens or does not happen will not change that,” he whispers.</p><p>Nicolo moves his hand upward, twists his wrist slightly, thumb pressed on the sensitive spot on his head, setting up a quick rhythm. Yusuf clenches his muscles, gripping Nicolo’s shoulders in an effort to keep himself from falling apart.</p><p>Nicolo kisses along his jaw, rubs his cheek across his beard before nipping the skin of Yusuf’s neck. His teeth deliver a sharp sting of pain before his tongue soothes the spot, moving down to his collarbone. When he bites the jut of bone there, Yusuf groans and spills over Nicolo’s hand.</p><p>He gently pats away Yusuf’s offered hand, murmurs something low and reassuring before Yusuf is gathered up in Nicolo’s arms and drifts off to a dreamless sleep.</p><p>--</p><p>Nicolo, to his credit, does not bring it up for another few days.</p><p>“If we meet them at Damascus, we can end it there. Half their forces have already been wiped out. They are fighting amongst themselves, desperate to snatch a victory. We can do some good here, Yusuf.”</p><p>“Damascus is already allied with the crusaders,” Yusuf shrugs, busying himself with building their fire, avoiding Nicolo’s gaze.</p><p>“But Al-Din is rumoured to be in talks to control it soon. Look,” Nicolo grabs his wrist, and Yusuf finally looks at him, “Damascus is the place we stand; between Islam and Christianity. Attacking Damascus is not the right thing to do – there are innocent lives at stake. We can help them.”</p><p>Yusuf jerks his hand back, feeling cornered. “Do not talk to me about the right thing, Nicolo, or have you forgotten which side you were on in the <em>first</em> crusade?”</p><p>He doesn’t know why he says it. But when Nicolo immediately shuts down, turning away, Yusuf is ruefully relieved at the break in conversation.</p><p>They sit in uneasy silence all night. When they lay down to sleep, Yusuf reaches for him, but as his hand brushes his arm, Nicolo flinches away.</p><p>--</p><p>When Yusuf wakes up the next morning, he’s alone. He swears, scrambling to his feet to look around frantically. Nicolo’s bedroll is gone, as are his belongings. Which means he wasn’t captured, which is a relief. But it also means he left Yusuf of his own will.</p><p>Yusuf grits his teeth and kicks at the dirt.</p><p>Then he starts walking.</p><p>--</p><p>Nicolo, as it turns out, was only a few hours ahead. By sunset, Yusuf catches up to Nicolo’s camp for the night. Nicolo doesn’t spare him a glance from his seat by the fire when he approaches, and Yusuf observes the two bowls he’s already set out beside him.</p><p>“So you were just going to leave me, then?” He glares, though they both know it’s a lie.</p><p>Nicolo meets his eyes, and there’s a stubbornness there that Yusuf has only seen between his thighs or when bartering over produce.</p><p>“I will continue walking toward Damascus. You can accompany me, or not,” Nicolo says, like it’s simple, like it’s an effortless decision.</p><p>“And if I decide not to?” Yusuf challenges. It’s an empty threat; Yusuf would follow him into Hell. He doesn’t know why he’s fighting this so hard.</p><p>“Then I will meet you in Cyprus, or Constantinople, or anywhere you find yourself,” Nicolo replies easily, and with this, Yusuf is overcome.</p><p>He collapses across from Nicolo, legs folded under himself like he’s going to pray, and gives voice to his fears.</p><p>“What if we fail?” Yusuf whispers, swallowing hard.</p><p>Nicolo makes a small sound and reaches out to bring their foreheads together. “We can only do what we can do. If we only protect one life, that is enough. It has to be enough.”</p><p>Yusuf can feel his eyes stinging with unshed tears, but he nods.</p><p>--</p><p>
  <strong>2.</strong>
</p><p>They spend decades searching for Quynh.</p><p>Nicolo’s body has become a receptacle for grief; his own deep hollowness, Andromache’s sharp jagged pain, Yusuf’s ache. He takes it all.</p><p>Nicolo is deftly attuned to Yusuf. When he laughs, Nicolo can hear the resonating sound across his own sternum. When he stumbles, it’s Nicolo’s solid backbone he falls upon. When he shakes, the hair on the nape of Nicolo’s neck stands to attention, ripples goose bumps along the places Yusuf likes to kiss. When Yusuf is hurt, his cry of pain is barbed wire in Nicolo’s throat.</p><p>He has been tending the seed of love in Yusuf’s heart for centuries, and the roots are thick knots, tangled in every branch of his bronchial tree. When it breaks, he can feel the splintering stems like a broken bone.</p><p>Every time a lead hits a dead end, the deep pit in Nicolo’s body grows. He’s sure his bones must be carved with sorrow. Andromache passes out most nights between Yusuf and Nicolo, all of them clinging to one other. Sometimes he wakes up with water in his lungs, and it feels so real that it takes several minutes before he can remember how to breathe.</p><p>When at last Andromache says <em>enough, </em>the guilt and relief that surges through Nicolo’s body threatens to tear him in half.</p><p>He can only nod and squeeze Yusuf’s hand beside him.</p><p>Andromache starts sleeping alone.</p><p>--</p><p>To love Yusuf is to lose him, over and over and over. It’s a simple truth that he’s done his best to make peace with. But sometimes it relentlessly struggles inside his chest, tears itself out.</p><p>After losing Quynh, he really should have expected it. But it’s not until he’s dived in front of a shotgun shell aimed at Yusuf and blown a hole through his chest that he realises he’s not handling it as well as he’d like.</p><p>--</p><p>When he awakens, Yusuf is by his side. It looks as if he’s been moved to a safehouse, and he’s lying on a military cot. Yusuf looks exhausted, and his hands are stained with Nicolo’s blood.</p><p>“You took- it took a little longer than usual; your body is unused to gunshots,” Yusuf manages. His eyes are red.</p><p>“I suppose I will have to practice more,” Nicolo tries jokingly, but it falls flat.</p><p>Yusuf’s hand, unsteady and cold, curls into a fist in his shirt. Nicolo covers it with his own, turns their hands into to stitched brambles.</p><p>“It’s my duty to protect you. I will not apologise for sparing you a moment of pain, beloved,” Nicolo says quietly.</p><p>“Do you think me spared, watching you die? Waiting to see if you come back?” Yusuf’s voice cracks on the last word, and Nicolo presses his hand to the underside of Yusuf’s jaw, feeling the lump of his throat with his thumb.</p><p>Yusuf catches his wrist and holds it to his face, kissing his palm. “I cannot love a ghost; I’m not as strong as Andy. Don’t make me lose you, too,” he begs, eyes shining, and it crushes Nicolo’s heart.</p><p><em>You won’t lose me</em>, Nicolo wants to promise, but it feels empty, nothing like the promise he made to Yusuf hundreds of years ago.</p><p>Everything feels…fragile. Breakable. Temporary. The peach skin rotting on the counter in France; the hyacinths in Malta overrun by weeds; the rubbles of Parthenon. The world takes and takes and takes as it wants. Who are they to tell the universe <em>you cannot touch this? </em></p><p>“I love you,” he says instead, because it is true. Because it is the only thing that cannot be lost. Because it is a promise he can fulfil.</p><p>Yusuf leans over and kisses him, hard and desperate.</p><p>“I love you too, hayati,” Yusuf answers.</p><p>They will get through this together.</p><p>--</p><p>
  <strong>3.</strong>
</p><p>Nicky breathes in, focuses. He’s low to the ground, shoulders hitched to accommodate the weight of the rifle. It’s not comfortable, the way he’s positioned; his neck is sore, and the muscles in his lower back tense and untense periodically. But comfort is secondary to protecting his family.</p><p>He considers the surroundings, looking through the ocular lens of the scope to check for places any targets could hide in. They are in the middle of – excuse him – buttfuck nowhere, and the only thing to be seen is the vast red desert plains of the Australian outback.</p><p>His hand on the grip, holding it against his shoulder which will take the brunt of the impact when he fires. He rests his face against the cheekpiece, feels the way it pushes his skin against his cheekbone. His finger sits beside the trigger; curls around it only when he’s ready to shoot.</p><p>He breaths in again. He is a gun, sleek and functional, clicking into place. Atop the roof of their safehouse, the sky is bleeding with the early dawn light. He couldn’t sleep; needed to feel in control somehow, to feel his hands doing something.</p><p>“Keeping a lookout?”</p><p>Nicky lets out his breath, and sets the rifle down carefully beside him. He rolls over, sits up against the edge of the roof. Nile is in a pair of shorts and a cropped hoodie; the mornings here have been cool, but they often fade into scorching days.</p><p>“I don’t presume to trust Copley just yet,” he admits.</p><p>Nile nods, seemingly considering this, and then sits beside him. Nicky likes Nile, though it isn’t hard. She is a fierce fighter and protector; her earnestness, he hopes, will not fade with time.</p><p> He rolls a bullet shell around in his palm, holds the impression of violence he’s inflicted in his hand. He sees Nile staring at his fiddling, so he holds it up to her, palm upward.</p><p>“Andy is resisting help with her stitches,” Nile explains, taking the offering and examining the object.</p><p>Nicky chuckles, remarks, “Andy has spent more time alone than with people; you’ll have to forgive her for finding it difficult to accept help.” At Nile’s sad expression, he adds, “but she has a soft spot for Joe. Perhaps you can ask him to badger her.”   </p><p>Nile smiles, and it tugs at something in his heart to see her find happiness in purpose. A soldier through and through.</p><p>She stands, throws the bullet in the air to Nicky and he catches it with one hand, salutes goodbye to her with the other. He snorts at her overexaggerated answering bow.</p><p>This past week has not been kind to them; after the events surrounding Merrick and being taken, after Booker’s betrayal, after learning of Andy’s mortality, they’d decided to stay in one place until things settled down. Joe was clearly restless, and Nicky was unsure how to help. But he knows they will overcome this.</p><p>When he returns to their bed, Joe is still sleeping. He sheds his clothes and slides next to him, tangling their legs together. Facing Joe like this, he can see his peaceful expression in sleep. He is reminded of the Lovers of Valdaro, buried together in an embrace, their foreheads touching. How lovely it would be, he thinks, to lay for an eternity beside Yusuf.</p><p>--</p><p>When he awakens next, they’ve rolled to their usual position, with Nicky’s back to Joe’s chest. After everything, even when the world feels uncertain, this remains the same.</p><p>Joe’s arm around his waist tightens when he shifts. Nicky lets himself be held, all the while wondering how they can learn to forgive, how they can learn to move on and build a new family around the carcass of their old one.</p><p>Joe presses a lazy kiss to his neck, and Nicky relaxes back into his embrace. He doesn’t know how to fix this; not for the first time, he lets Joe take the lead.</p><p>It turns out letting Joe take the lead involves being slowly opened up on his fingers until he’s struggling to hold back his sharp whines of frustration. They’re still in the same position they’d woken up in, and although Nicky is desperate for a kiss, he doesn’t want to move.</p><p>“You are gorgeous, Nicolo,” Joe breathes against his ear as he lines himself up.</p><p>Joe pushes in agonisingly slow, and as he’s all the way in he has to clamp a hand around Nicky’s mouth to quiet his moans. The walls of this safehouse are particularly thin, and Joe is less possessive of Nicky as Nicky is cautious to have Nile hear them like this.</p><p>Nicky bites into the meat of Joe’s thumb, causing him to groan and presses deeper. Like this, he’s completely surrounded by Joe – he is the only thing he hears, smells, feels. It’s intoxicating and just what he needs.</p><p>He moans around Joe’s hand when he starts hitting his prostate on each slide in. He feels flushed, knows his hair must be sticking to his face, but Joe is fucking him so good he couldn’t care how he looks.</p><p>On the next filthy roll of Joe’s hips, his hand drops from his mouth to around his neck, and suddenly everything is bathed with golden light. He tenses minutely before surrendering, trusting Joe with his pleasure, his life. He is shaking with the prospect of Joe cutting off his airflow, taking away his choices, giving up control.</p><p>“I’ve got you, habibi,” Joe says, because does, because he knows exactly what Nicky needs.</p><p>His hand tightens, restricting his intake to little hiccups, and Nicky is blazing with want, desire becomes a tangible thing between them. Joe rolls his hips up again, hitting his sweet spot as he squeezes firmer.  </p><p>Joe’s finger is brushing gently against his wild pulse on his neck, and the softness juxtaposes his grip on Nicky’s neck. Everything is burning, his lungs working to get in air, his hips still trying to get more of Joe in him.</p><p>“You give yourself to me so beautifully, my love. Let me take care of you,” Joe murmurs.</p><p>There’s something swimming in his vision, but all Nicky can seem to focus on is Joe’s cock driving into him, over and over and over. He barely has the presence of mind to tap on the strained muscles of Joe’s forearm.</p><p>When Joe releases him, Nicky’s inward gasp is immediately choked off when Joe’s hand wraps around his cock and strokes furiously. He has no time to recover, can only clench around Joe’s cock and come in thick ropes. He reaches back to grip Joe’s hair as he jerks with the aftershocks of it, and then Joe is following him, filling him with his warmth.</p><p>He’s still panting, gulping in air as Joe’s fingers press against his pulse. He can feel Joe’s thumping heartbeat against his back, can feel the moment they start to slow and synchronise.</p><p>The hurt is still there; as is the sadness. But Joe is there, too. Maybe that’s all that matters.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This was me playing with some angsty themes. Let me know if you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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